


Refraction

by zipegs



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Angst, Canon Universe, Gen, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Humor, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-12 11:37:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17466839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipegs/pseuds/zipegs
Summary: refraction, noun (  re·frac·tion | \ ri-ˈfrak-shən  \  )deflection from a straight path undergone by a light ray or energy wave in passing obliquely from one medium (such as air) into another (such as glass) in which its velocity is differentthe change in the apparent position of a celestial body due to bending of the light rays emanating from it as they pass through the atmospherealso : the correction to be applied to the apparent position of a body because of this bendingthe action of distorting an image by viewing through a mediumalso : an instance of thisA collection of 100-word drabbles as prompted by the Profound Bond Discord's weekly challenge. Each chapter will correspond to a one-word prompt, with at least one stand-alone drabble per chapter.





	1. Storm

Once, a storm of this caliber might have been of Castiel’s making. In his true form, he crafted lightning from his grace, shook the earth with bouts of thunder, brought rain cascading from the heavens. These he bore as sword and shield, heavenly weapons for a heavenly warrior.

 

Now, though earthly thunder rumbles in his bones, there is no answering stir from within. The place where his grace once thrived feels hollow, empty, and he smells no holy power in this air – just ozone and petrichor.

 

Dean’s hand comes to rest upon his shoulder.

 

Castiel closes his eyes and listens to the rain.

  


* * *

  


“Dean.”

 

“I see it.” Sweat and blood slick the handle of his knife; his grip tightens in anticipation. Outside the broad windows, a writhing mass of black smoke coalesces in the sky, so thick it blots out the sun.

 

_“Dean.”_

 

“I see it, Cas!” The angel’s gaze weighs heavy on Dean, and though he does not turn, he feels the impatience and fear it bears. It is echoed in his own heart, in the spike of adrenaline that shoots, electric, down the length of his spine. “How long do we have?” He wrenches his gaze away from the window at last, twisting to look at Cas over his shoulder. 

 

Cas’s face is stiff with tension, the line of his mouth thin. “I don’t—”

 

_“How long do we have?”_

 

Dean watches his face fall, crystallizing again in weary resignation, and he knows.

  


* * *

  


The rain comes sooner than expected.

 

There hasn’t been time to finish cabin repairs – these past days have been spent wielding paint and blood in place of hammer and nail, security being of greater concern than comfort.

 

Shivering, Dean huddles at the head of a lumpy mattress, listening to the wind whistle a violent song through the many chinks in the cabin’s wooden armor. Cas is beside him, the meat of his thigh pressed warm and solid against Dean’s. His head tilts back against the wall, eyes shut. Posed like this, he seems almost at peace.

 

Lightning crackles overhead, and the sky booms its response.

 

It sounds like an omen.


	2. Bunny

“I don’t understand. How is a rabbit relevant to parties and boys?”

 

Dean raises his head from the soft blue glow of his laptop screen to frown at Cas. “What are you talking about?”

 

“This woman,” Cas explains, eyes glued to the unwieldy television set hunkering in the corner. “She claims to be an ‘expert at parties and boys’ because she’s a bunny. It doesn’t make any sense.”

 

Dean follows Cas’s gaze, eyes settling on a peppy blonde and several sorority girls sitting cross-legged on a garishly pink couch. His frown deepens. “Is that _House Bunny_?”

 

Across the table, Sam barks out a laugh. “Dude, how do you even know that?”

 

“It comes on a lot, okay?!”

  


* * *

  


“Symbolically, it isn’t that large of a leap.”

 

“Lemme get this straight – you're tellin’ me that a dead guy zombie-ing his way outta some cave and an _Easter bunny_ are related?”

 

Castiel fixes him with a familiar, long-suffering look. “Yes, actually. Historically, rabbits symbolize both vulnerability and comfort. They’re also closely linked to the spring, a season in which the Earth quite literally reemerges from an impermanent death, much as Christ rose from his crucifixion.”

 

“Whatever, man, I’m just sayin’: Christianity coulda picked something a little less creepy than a giant frickin’ bunny.”

 

Castiel does not roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing.

  


* * *

  


Castiel watches the pale light of morning filter through the canopy of leaves. Morning dew, cold and wet, dapples his skin, his coat. In the distance, a fledgling croons its heartbreak, voice borne down from the heights by a cold wind.

 

Slow and restrained, he brings his elbows to rest upon his knees, fingers intertwined between them. Beneath him, a felled tree bears his weight in stoic camaraderie. Castiel watches a young rabbit rustle through the fallen leaves, seeking its brethren.

 

It has been 300 years since the Winchesters breathed their last.

 

He sits, watching morning turn to day.


	3. Fire

It only takes a moment.

 

A step forward, the _shick_ of a lighter, and flames burst to life around him—in a breath, he is ensnared. Across the blaze, Dean’s face is hard, pained, uplit in reds and oranges that paint him sinister. Castiel whirls toward Bobby, Sam, seeking an escape, but their expressions are similarly forged.

 

The fallacy of his pride is as a stone in his stomach. Desperation surges like bile in his throat, forms words that spill from his lips like prayers.

 

But never has God answered him before, and as he meets Dean’s gaze, Castiel thinks perhaps his Father isn’t the only one unwilling to listen.

  


* * *

 

The host of heaven was crafted for worship and praise, built of a love which knows no bounds. Castiel has flown around his Father’s throne, crying _Glory_ and _Praise_ and _Honor_ with adoration bursting from his chest, a flaming halo around him.

 

Castiel knows love, has spent billions of years in the warmth of its glow. Then he descends to Earth, and Dean Winchester cracks open his chest and holds his grace with bare hands.

 

He has never known a love that burns and rages and consumes, never known a love that yearns and aches through every atom of his being.

 

He looks at Dean and wonders what other things he has but presumed to know.


	4. Coffee

Castiel is not a morning person.

 

Dean has learned this about him since the Fall. He’s come to expect the way morning runs tousling hands through Cas’s already unruly hair, the way it settles on his shoulders, heavy and thick. So when Castiel shuffles into the kitchen, blinking sleep from half-lidded eyes, pajama pants riding low on his hips, Dean only smiles, reaches for an empty mug.

 

When it’s filled with coffee (two sugars and a bit of cream), Dean passes it over. Their fingers brush, soft and gentle, and Dean’s heart stumbles in his chest.

 

He looks at Castiel, rumpled and human, and thinks: I didn’t know it could be like this.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The passage of time has never ailed him before.

 

He is ageless, eternal. He has stood watch over humanity for millennia, has felt a thousand years swing past in a single moment. But here, alone, the memory of his failure a hot brand against the back of his skull, he feels like he is treading water.

 

The staff had noticed, at first. They watched him as though he were a pariah, wariness seeping from their pores.

 

They still do, but coffee, it seems, is as good a disguise as any.

 

He watches the mug on his table turn cold. He feels the weight of the tablet in his breast.

 

He wonders when it will be enough.


	5. Dolphin

Castiel has been alive since the Creation. He has stood watch over Earth for millennia, has witnessed empires rise and fall, has beheld evolution and extinction, each in their turn. He can name the prophets of old and those yet to come, can explain the mathematical equations which govern the laws of physics, can detail the etymology of the word  _ dolphin  _ and the species to which it refers, all as easy as drawing breath.

 

Now, standing chest-to-chest with the Righteous Man, he thinks he might forfeit it all if only to remember this moment, and the way Dean’s lips fit against his.


	6. Letters

Dean isn’t sure how it started—a post-it stuck to the door of the refrigerator, maybe ( _buy more milk!!_ ), or a message scrawled on the back of an old receipt ( _went for coffee, be back soon_ ). Whatever the case, it’s become a cornerstone of their relationship.

 

He thinks that if someone were to gather up the mismatched bits and pieces of paper (Dean’s are stashed between magazine pages under his bed, and Cas’s lie inside a little box in his bottom desk drawer), they’d have a chronicle of their love, a series of vignettes spanning from _then_ to _now_.

 

They’d find _meet me at the cinema @ 5_ and _these are_ _clean_ _!!!_ and _saw this at walgreens + thought of you_ . There are sticky notes with funny faces, hearts doodled on torn-off corners. A piece of notebook paper declares a nerf gun war; the back of an article on beekeeping reads: _pie in the fridge_ _ツ_

 

There are longer notes, too. Dean has found that it’s easier to write his love than to say it, easier to read it than hear it, so he leaves his affection under the coffee maker in the morning, slips it into Cas’s briefcase or his dresser drawer. In return, he finds love lying on the dashboard of his car, tucked under the lid of his record player.

 

It’s only fitting, Dean thinks, slipping a folded scrap of paper and a small black box into the pocket of Castiel’s trench coat, that it ends up like this.

 

_Marry me?_


End file.
